


Death Throes

by Kageriah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Dark Magic, Diaspora, Discussions of Eurocentrism, Fuck JKR, LGBTQ Themes, Passable Hindi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character(s), Trauma, True Names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kageriah/pseuds/Kageriah
Summary: Regulus doesn't last the night. Sirius spends the hours before he had planned on running away instead holding his sibling as they take their dying breaths.Kreacher thinks the one person who loved him is going to end up rotting in some confining grave, never again making up stories for the stars with their house elf companion when they should have been in bed.Sirius wonders where he messed up and why he didn't pay more attention to Regulus as they grew apart. Why can he only appreciate things and people after he loses them?Arcturus remembers his estranged mother and her even stranger magic, and he decides in this darkest moment to invoke her familial bonds and restore the children of the Black family from a fractured ornament that once held the sky into something almost whole.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Death Throes

**Author's Note:**

> This universe is close to my heart because the series was what brought out my interest in reading from a young age. However, I hate JKR for using her platform to perpetuate transphobia and for writing racist, ableist, and queerphobic narratives. I am playing around in this world as a writing exercise, and I plan to make it my own.

There are infinite factors, contexts, and histories that lead to any moment in time. In magical ideologies not embraced by the British Wizarding World, one might understand that everyone and everything is connected. Every action that any person could possibly take affects every other moment in the world and in time. No single action is insignificant. 

Thus, trying to unravel the exact cause of any situation is impossible. We may never know the cause of the events leading up to this moment. Was it the “ _Shhhhh, this is a normal procedure. Completely normal._ ” or was it scratches weaving up and down arms from a punishment? Was it “ _You’re not my brother, you’re a Slytherin! You’re just like_ them.” or was it “ _You will be the perfect son from now on_ ”?

Grief causes people to try and make sense of a tragedy. But the real story here begins afterwards.

Regulus Black dies for approximately 2 hours on July 4th, 1975, in the arms of their brother, Sirius Black. No one in attendance - Sirius, Grandfather Arcturus, or Kreacher - knows why or how. Kreacher cries as he carries out every order Grandfather Arcturus asks him to do. Potions, spells, and runecraft alike do nothing to save the child from the clawed grip of death. 

Grandfather Arcturus leaves the room just as they die. Sirius holds Regulus and shakes. He is silent, trembling violently as Kreacher sobs and beats his own head. The wards signal the disapparation of Lord Black. 

Arcturus reappears at a new house, shockingly different from the dark browns and blacks of Grimmauld Place. Built on a dirt road with absolutely no other houses or buildings, it’s tucked into the space between trees with enormous leaves. The house is painted white, with smooth walls and soft edges and orange paneling. The windows shine reflections of Arcturus back at himself. 

It’s nighttime, but the sky isn’t very dark, shot through with a million million stars and constellations, his family marked across the veil of the sky. Arcturus walks towards the house and steps through a shimmering, gold veil of magic. As soon as he does, the house lights up with globes of golden sunshine, washing over the roof and out the now clear windows. 

A chattering monkey jumps from the roof of the house to a branch above Arcturus. It screeches down at him. Arcturus waves back up at the monkey, which lets out a calmer, quieter purr. 

The rich brown front door opens, and a gorgeous woman steps out. Adorned in a blue-black saree with rhinestones almost in the shapes of constellations, the laugh lines around her eyes speak of a woman who smiles in the face of adversity and who cares so deeply about the people around her. 

“Ah, Swaati, I wasn’t expecting you tonight,” she says. “Nonetheless, you are welcome.”

Arcturus approaches and bows down, reaching for her feet, but the woman pulls him up by the shoulders. 

“None of that, beta. Come,” she pulls Arcturus into a hug. 

Arcturus sighs into her embrace. He clings to her like the last vestiges of hope, and hides his tears in her hair. She, nonetheless, notices. 

“Mummi, I - I need your help.”

She pulls back from Arcturus, holding him at shoulder length as she scrutinizes his face.

“What’s happened?” she asks. 

Arcturus closes his eyes and breathes in a harrowing breath. “It’s Regulus, Mummi. He’s dead.”

She gasps and her face folds into tears. “What - how?”

Arcturus shakes his head. 

His mother lets go of him, and her face hardens into something colder than ice. She flicks her hand at the house and whispers under her breath.

“ _Mayadvaar band kar dena_!” 

The magic veil encloses on the house, a gate that no one can pass. The lights and monkey disappear. The elegant woman turns to Arcturus. 

“Take me to him.”

* * *

Arcturus and his mother appear on the street outside Grimmauld Place. Arcturus looks at the woman of indiscernible age. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asks. 

Arcturus gives a shuddering nod and leads her into the house. He passes the elf heads and family portraits without a word; his mother looks around in disgust. He gently opens the door to Regulus’ room. Regulus lies on the bed, life drained from their body. 

Sirius sits on the floor next to them, head buried in his arms on the bed. He cries viscerally, but completely silently, and it’s clear he has had years to practice the art of soundless despair. 

Arcturus stands in the doorway and his mother brushes past him. 

“Oh, beta,” she says, gently prying Sirius from the bed and pulling him into her arms. “It will all be alright.” 

She passes him to Arcturus, who stiffly hugs his grandson. Sirius looks up at him, red rimmed eyes confused. 

“Who…?”

Arcturus nods at his mother. His voice is kinder than his embrace. “This is my mother, Hesper Gamp. Your great-grandmother.”

“Oh nonsense,” she says. “He’s family. He can know my true name. I am Karishma. I’m here to help, beta.”

She turns to Regulus’ body and places her hands on their throat and forehead. She hums. She moves her hands to the top of their head and their solar plexus. 

Sirius turns to her, but stays within Arcturus’ reach. He gulps back his tears and snot. 

“Grandfather, what - what is she doing?” he whispers to Arcturus. 

Arcturus looks down at this boy. There is a moment when you look into someone’s eyes and realize that you’ve missed so much of their lives without realizing it. Maybe a close friend from school who moved to a different city after you graduated, or a child you only see on weekends because of a divorce. Arcturus knows that the choices that led to this moment are unchangeable, but he imagines what life would be if he had been involved in his grandchildrens’ lives. Maybe things would be different now. 

“Grandfather?”

Karishma tuts. “I’m trying to bring back Regulus.”

“Bring him back? But - how?” Sirius asks. 

“There are some magics that would take years to explain. I’m sure your parents didn’t share the secrets of your father’s lineage with you, did they?”

Arcturus sighs. “ _Mother_ …”

Karishma closes her eyes, and her hands glow above Regulus’ body. She whispers something under her breath and a blue glow surrounds their body. She then turns back to Arcturus and Sirius. 

“Don’t you ‘ _mother_ ’ me. You are a seventy year old, grown man. Act like it.”

Arcturus opens his mouth like a gaping fish. “I…”

Karishma’s eyes roll skyward and she waves her hand. “ _Do kursiyan prakat hui_ ”. 

Two armless, wicker chairs appear in front of Arcturus and Sirius. She summons another and sits in front of Regulus. 

“Now sit. You may have to wait for some time,” she says. 

Sirius immediately sits in the chair closest to him, rubbing his eyes to hide any trace of tears. He sniffs and watches Karishma wearily. Arcturus sniffs as well, a dignified intake of breath, completely unmatched by what he says next.

“I am _seventy-five_.” 

Karishma ignores him. She hums, swaying in her seat, arms swimming melodically over Regulus’ body. Without turning, she addresses Arcturus.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the child’s name, would you?”

Arcturus shakes his head. In a moment, he realizes that she wouldn’t see.

“No, my son never did the ritual… for either of the boys,” a second look at his face would show wistful regret.

“H-his name is Regulus, though. What other name would he have? What do you mean by true name?” Sirius asks. 

“Regulus is the name he was given,” says Karishma. “By parents who have no connection to the wider universe. A true name would be something that he chose. Something that defines the very essence of his being. It is rare that the two names are the same or even similar. Your grandfather is an exception; his name, Svaati, literally translates to Arcturus.” 

She closes her eyes for a moment, and without warning, reaches for Regulus’ body, her hands turning orange and celestial, like a night sky lit by unquantifiable distant supernovae. Orange light bathes the room, the reflections of tiny stars and explosions drifting across the walls. Sirius’ eyes gape open. He and Arcturus watch in awe. 

“Now, I will find Regulus' true name. And with it, I will bring him back,” she says. 

Karishma presses her left thumb against Regulus’ throat, cupping their neck. She reaches her other hand up and presses a thumb against the crown of their head. Explosions of orange light sparkle through her skin where she touches them. 

She leans in closer, closer, and closer, until her entire is above Regulus’. She takes a deep breath and dives into their body like a swimmer, disappearing with the flashes of a billion dying stars. 

* * *

Regulus thinks he can feel the blood rushing through his entire body. He feels every blood vessel, hears the oceanic sounds of his circulation, and vibrates like a detection spell that found something particularly intriguing. There is nothing else in the entire world but him and his body.

And now that is gone too. 

There is no word in any human language that can explain the sensation of death, and Regulus doesn’t know if he wants to even try to. He wants the little boy that was himself to let go and give into the swirling infinity of nothingness, to pass into the abyss. But which little boy is that? He is not a little boy. He must find the little boy, though? He - no, they - don’t know if they want to even try? They, for they are not a single human boy but an infinite number of… something? 

Something that is what? 

This person that is themself, what are they? They are surrounded by the incongruity of nothing, but also everything. They feel every molecule to pass them by as they drift into whatever this is. They cannot see, they cannot hear, they cannot touch, they cannot taste, they cannot smell. And for all they try to move a part of their body that may once have been known as their mouth, they cannot speak. 

But they understand. They understand everything around them. They sit up from their lying position and they pass through their own body. They are not their self but they are a part of themself. And when they pass through, they _understand_. 

They are more than whatever little boy they thought they were before. They are a sum of all their moments, they are the feeling when a hand wraps around their shoulders and cheers for their little acts of rebellion. They are the happiness when they finally paint a pastel portrait of a proud, black dog covered in constellations, and at his center, the dog stars. They are the chalk dust caked on their hands, pride at what they have completed, portraits of their family stretching as far as the eye can see, clapping the dust into a cloud of nebulous colors that refracts the sunlight in such a beautiful way.

They are the cloud that drifts into infinity when its dust turns into a million million stars and constellations, a family marked across the veil of the sky. They are the band of light across the heavens that leads sailors to their destinations and lights up the land when the moon is new. 

They drift up, tethered by their own body no longer. They pass through arms, holding a poor brother together as he watches the life drain from his younger sibling. This boy, not grown but shouldering so much. As they pass through his body they understand. Their brother is a dandelion, hardy and beautiful, and his bonds come not from rooted structure but from seeds, blowing in the wind, not growing until they find the perfect home. His bonds spread far and wide across Earth and he makes them himself rather than letting the infection in his roots spread further. 

They admire him for that. But they don’t have the will to stay and admire, instead drifting upward. Gravity reverses and they fall head first through the confines of the house they never knew too well, a cage, cages lined up next to each other in a slaughterhouse, skinny animals cowering as they watch the blade that spells their doom cleave the skin from the bodies of their brethren. 

They will never have to return to this place, they think as they dissipate through the foundations of their life. The stars aren’t visible until they ascend above the London skyline, so far up that the below and the above are one and the same and they cannot tell which way they are going any longer. They become a part of the astronomy they remember reading, and they feel comfortable. At peace. 

They know who they are now, and they understand their brother, and their old house, in a way they never would have when they were alive. 

Now, there is no need to stumble on half made words in clunky languages trying to tell their brother they love them when he doubts so much or trying to say there is wrongness, something is wrong without making themself so open and vulnerable in a way they won’t, mustn’t, can’t be. Maybe there would have been a time in their life when they would freely go to that place, but they will never know now. 

They stretch. Up into the abyss they stretch. They become so widespread that they can feel themself on one side of the galaxy and also another. They learn so much. And then-


End file.
